


Ithyphallic

by ordinarily (tofty)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-15
Updated: 2010-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/ordinarily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On some random hunt, Dean learns how to make a voodoo doll. He makes one of Sam, but instead of torturing it, uses it to turn Sam on in really filthy ways. Could be anything from dubcon or noncon to first time schmoopy crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ithyphallic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the third round of the blindfold kink meme, for the summary prompt. The discerning will note that this story does not actually feature a voodoo doll; I changed it up a little on account of the fact that I've always wanted to use [this bronze sculpture](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/0e/Mus%C3%A9e_Picardie_Arch%C3%A9o_03.jpg) in a fic, and figured it might be now or never.

It's just another day in the Winchester life, an ordinary day, an ordinary cursed statue ("statu _ette_ , Dean") turning an entire ordinary New Mexican town (a tiny town, sure, but still) into an ordinary, writhing, swinging sex machine. And you and Sam rushing to the motherfucking rescue just as things start going violently wrong, the ordinary, horrified, hilariously confused townspeople snapping out of it afterwards like frat boys waking up the morning after.

Yeah, you think it's a pretty good life, sometimes.

You get back to the motel together, dirty and exhausted and successful, also as per usual, and it's not until you start stripping off layers that you come across the statue in your jacket pocket. You take out the little guy, no bigger than your average action figure and bearing a slight resemblance to a garden gnome, and set it on the dresser next to the TV.

"Huh," Sam says, watching you. "Thought that thing got lost in the scuffle."

You shrug. "Me too. Guess I musta picked it up at some point. Because you know I'm awesome. I'm awesome without even knowing how awesome I am. My awesomeness has unexplored depths."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Sure thing, Captain Awesome." He starts tugging off his own shirts, voice muffled underneath them. "So what're we gonna do with it?"

"Well, it's all desexified now, right?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Then I say we keep it as our sick little mascot." you pick him back up and pull off the cover, exposing the erect metal penis underneath, and wave it at Sam like you're hunkering down for a knife fight. "Put it on the dashboard. Our version of a hula girl."

"Yeah, no. That's not happening."

You smirk at Sam. "Aw, baby, don't be that way. Think of all the inspiration it'd give us." You set the pieces of the statue down and reach for Sam, slipping the fingertips of one hand under the waistband of his jeans.

"Seriously, man." Sam looks annoyed, something else with it but you're not sure what.

You pull your hands away immediately and back up a couple paces. "Yeah, Sam, I got it. Sorry." You do know that Sam doesn't want it, times like now, but you get caught up sometimes and just forget in the heat of the moment.

"Dean."

Sam's got that we-should-talk-about-this vibe going down, and you are always, always going to want to ignore that vibe. "It's fine, Sam. Go take your shower or something. I'll watch Kimmel till you're done." You grab the remote, and you can tell without even looking that Sam wants to say something else, but after a minute he just sighs and stomps into the bathroom. He doesn't slam the door, but you can tell that he's not slamming it on purpose. To make his point.

You drop onto the bed with the remote, pissed off and wishing that you were on the same page with this thing you've got going, for once.

Really, it's not that Sam's not into it, you know that. He's into it, he's _way_ into it (you've fucked enough people to be able to tell when someone's getting off or just going through the motions, and no way is Sam giving your whatever-it-is a walkthrough). He wants it as much as you do, even, and you did not expect that, but you do appreciate it, obviously.

It's just, your cycles or biorhythms or whatthefuckever are incompatible. Sam likes to be relaxed when it happens, likes it during the downtime, likes when there are hours ahead of you and nowhere to go. Likes to be prepared. You, on the other hand, you tend to play it as it lays, plus you're also what Sam calls an adrenaline junkie, and so you're used to seizing the moment -- any moment, but especially moments after the hunt when you're still all revved up -- and going with it. You're still working on a compromise on that one, and since Sam's never been a negotiator, it's slow going, and since you've never been Mr. Sensitivity, you're not always patient, and you try to force the issue, sometimes without thinking, like tonight, but sometimes it's not quite an accident, you can admit it when there’s nobody but you in the room.

You surf until you find Kimmel, and you mean to wait up watching so you can take a shower, too, but the day catches up with you fast, before you can even work back up to the idea of getting off. Getting yourself off. Again.

:::

Sam's still sleeping in the other bed when you wake up, but by the time you're out of the shower, he's sitting on the edge of it, shoving his feet into his boots. "Hey," you say to him, "I was thinking, since we can't destroy that little fucker--" you laugh a little at your own joke, since you know Sam's not going to, and he doesn't -- "why don't we get Bobby to make us a spelled lockbox for it, and we cart it up to Dad's storage space?"

Sam considers this. "Yeah, that's probably our best bet." He scrubs at his stubble with one hand, and the scratchy sound of it gives you a little flash of heat as you think of the beard-burn Sam inflicts on lazy unshaven days, but you know Sam's not gonna let that fly until you've got the statue off your hands once and for all, so you say nothing, grab a clean pair of shorts from your duffel instead, and turn back around to find Sam giving you the weirdest look.

"What'd I do this time?"

"Nothing," Sam says shortly, grabbing for his shaving kit. "Just, we can drive to Bobby's and get him to hook us up with a box, and then head over to New York."

You grimace at Sam behind his back and start rummaging for clothes. "Yeah, like I _said_ ," you mutter, feeling like a kid, but better for it.

"What?" Sam's standing over the sink, talking through a mouthful of toothpaste. He always seems to think it's gross when you do it, but whatever.

"Nothing. Or, hey," you say, noticing, "what'd you do with the statue?"

"Didn't do anything. It's wherever you put it last night."

"You saw what I did with it last night. It's not there."

"It has to be," Sam says, then spits into the sink, toothbrush in hand, and walks back into the room, peering around.

"Yeah, Sam, please do double-check my work, here. I may have overlooked it sitting where I put it _next to the TV_ last night." You glare at the space next to the television, which is totally empty of any kind of statue. It is a statue-free zone.

"Jesus Christ, Dean, fine, I’m _sorry_. I didn't do anything with it, though. I haven't touched it at all, ever. That thing's your baby, all the way."

"Yeah, right." You've been yanking on your clothes without looking, and probably half of them are on backwards or inside out. You look down at yourself to make sure all parts are accounted for. "Hurry up and finish what you gotta finish. I'll look for it while I pack up."

It turns up in your jacket pocket again, in the end. You know you didn't put it there, you know it, and that leaves one person who could have, but Sam refuses to cop to it. By the time you've loaded up the car, you're barely speaking to each other, and you feel the sheer stupidity of this fight, which isn’t even really about the gnome at all, but you're tired of being the one to give in. So you check out and eat breakfast and hit the road and call Bobby, do all of it pushed out to the outer edges of the car, angrier and farther apart than you've been since Sam made his way back from Hell.

You hate this. But you don't, can't, won’t stop it.

:::

It always comes down to the fill-up, in the end. All your travel's regulated by gas stops more than by anything else, and after a tense morning, the western landscape flashing past you, you're finally forced to either stop or run out of gas. You pull off the highway, suddenly grateful to escape the suppressed hostility of the car, and the change in venue turns out to be a lifesaver for both of you, the old-school diner, not to mention the blue plate specials (meat and bread and a choice of three "vegetables"), which you're pretty sure are the real Great Equalizer, and by the time you've scraped up the last of your gravy, you're in a much better mood. Sam, too, if you judge by the fact that he looks like he has a much smaller and smoother stick up his ass.

The truce lasts even after you get back in the car, always a good thing. An hour or so into the second leg, onto the second side of your favorite driving mix tape, you stretch in your seat, neck and back arched, kinda horny and wishing that Sam were that guy who gets off on car sex. You understand why he isn't that guy -- Sam's tall, and the Impala's big, but it's still barely big enough to hold Sam sitting still, much less when he's all stretched out, hot and sprawling and ready -- but still, you're wishing it.

Oh yeah, Sam, hot and sprawling and ready. Jeans open, hard already and poking out through the opening. You imagine Sam fisting his own gorgeous cock, right there on the Colorado highway. Tucking his other hand underneath his dick to cup his balls, all dressed except where it counts, pulling harder and harder, coming all over his fingers and spurting onto his jeans, right there on the seat next to you, then sliding across it, thank God for bench seats, and reaching over to get you off too.

You jerk out of your glassy-eyed road-trance fantasy when there's a moan next to you. Sam. He’s jerking off and massaging his balls, _holy shit_.

You fishtail the car back on the road after just a second, almost but not quite banking into a spin, gasping from a lot more than just the sight on the seat next to you. And Sam, Sam just keeps going, like he hasn't even noticed that you both just literally almost died from the sight of him jerking off, which is really not even a little bit like him. He comes all over his own fingers, calmly puts himself back together. And then he reaches over and pushes his hand hard into your groin without a word, and you pull over for part two, because there's no way you're saying no to that -- Sam's long, strong fingers wrapped tight around you -- and you’ve already proved you’re not prepared to stay focused on the road.

When you're both cleaned up and moving again, Sam doesn't mention it, and you're not sure quite what to say about it, and besides that stoked that you got something you wanted without having to ask for it, like fucking Christmas in March, and so you don't mention it, either.

:::

When it happens again, it's after dinner. The service is slow, and you spend a lot of your time lax from earlier in the day, imagining new and filthy happy endings to try out. And brave new Sam, you're thinking he's starting to feel your frustration, since he drags you out of the restaurant by the sleeve, and ten minutes later you've got your hands up against the back wall, you’re skewered on Sam's dick, pushing back against Sam to keep his thrusts from scraping your face all to hell against the brick. He drags it out, dangerously, his fingers clamped around your hips, forcing his way into you, and you can feel him bumping against your ribcage, or maybe that's just your crazy heart, and you're thinking that you should probably speed up the process by jerking yourself off, since every minute you're out there is another minute you're offering yourselves up to a bored homophobic county sheriff, and you don't want to spend the night in some nowhere lockup in some nowhere town, you really don't, but then Sam starts thrusting harder, and your brain just shuts down like a vapor-locked engine.

You walk back to the car all squelchy and loose, all the bones fucked right out of you. It's a wonder you can drive, but you find that you can, with a little extra effort. You were planning on driving all night, straight through to South Dakota, but you find a motel instead, and you're barely inside the room before Sam's on you again, no prep needed and no warning required, and it's like nothing and everything you've ever imagined.

:::

"Oh, _fuck_ ," says Sam later, wiped-out and rusty. It's the first opinion he's voiced on this new development, and you're not quite sure what to make of it. He's on his haunches behind you, both thumbs in your hole spreading you open, watching his come leaking from your ass, dripping down your thigh, your first bareback and worth the thirty-plus-year wait, and then he's leaning forward to slurp it up the back of your leg and fuck it into you with his tongue, and your arms just stop working and you fall face-first on the mattress and Sam's right behind you, he's got you. You’re not one hundred percent sure, but judging from the evidence, you're both doing fine.

:::

If this had been happening to somebody else, you'd like to think you'd have been faster to come up with an explanation, but it happens one more time, in the morning, before you make a connection to the statue. Sam's kissing you, leaning you back unbalanced against the table, you're gripping his forearms, he's got his coffee-flavored tongue deep in your mouth and his hands around your throat, squeezing lightly, rhythmically, not enough to cut off your air supply, not even close, just enough to hint at it. You think it'd be even better with his knee between your legs, to give you something to rub harder against, and there his leg is, pushing between yours, and that's when it hits you.

"Fucking… shit." You shove Sam hard, and he staggers back. He looks disoriented, the way he does when he's deep in a book and something recalls his attention to the outside world, taking a few seconds to get his bearings before he can do anything else. He reaches for you again, but you crabwalk past him, wiping your hands through your hair.

"Hey, uh, Sam," you say, automatically trying for casual before you give that up as a lost cause. "Why don't you tell me again about how that statue works."

Sam looks bewildered. "Uh, okay, sure," he says after a pause, and scrubs his hands down his thighs, still trying to refocus, "it's a bronze statuette of the Roman god Priapus, and it sort of imprints on people, you know? Someone touches it and it turns that person into a sexual lightning rod. I mean, Kayla Turek was a polyamorist, right, into free love, so she spelled it and touched it, and it latched on to her, and everything spiraled out of control from there, in polyamorous fashion, and that's where we came in. And if you were--" He stops suddenly, looking as though you've just hit him with a baseball bat. Which you kinda just have. "Oh."

"Yeah."

You both sit there for a second, silently processing. You're trying to gauge Sam's reaction, but Sam's face is not all that readable at the best of times. He's just standing there, inscrutable as Charlie fucking Chan, inaccessible as _Sam_ , as ever.

You're the one who ends up breaking the quiet, when you can't take it any more. "I guess the gnome wasn't desexinated after all, huh?"

"No, I guess not. Not fully, anyway."

There's another pause, and if anything, it's worse than all the other pauses in the conversation so far, put together. You can see the gears shifting in Sam's brain.

"So this, all this, for the past day or so, that was you, you made all that happen."

You swallow past something thickening in your throat. This is bad. This is maybe the worst thing that could have happened, with everything new and unsettled between you. You're struggling to think of the right thing to say, here, but that's never exactly been a strength of yours, and in the end, the words end up busting out of you without a filter.

This happens to you a lot.

"Yeah, but you gotta know, Sam, that I didn't perform a spell, okay? And I only just realized what was going on, just now, right when I pushed you off." Sam's eyes are narrowed on you. You sound desperate, and that's not really a good thing, when it comes to Sam, so you shut your mouth.

"So you thought that, that I was acting totally against character because I suddenly couldn't get enough of you, is that it?"

"Well, uh." Your pause is long enough to get him prompting you, this time.

"What?"

You clear your throat. "I guess I wasn't really thinking at all."

Sam sits on your bed and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, then leaves them there, just sitting there with his face in his hands. "Yeah, that I can believe."

You bite your lip. "So, I guess we should try to deactivate the gnome guy again."

"The Priapus, yeah, I'd say we’d better do better than try." Sam's voice is shaking a little. So are his hands. You think yours might be, too.

"And then what?" You don't want to ask the question, but you have to, can't stand the suspense, you want to know right now whether things are permanently fucked between you. Probably they are. Sam's boundaries are so clear, and you barreled right past them, and not just once, either. You need for Sam to say it, though, to make it real.

"Then. Uh, then…" his voice trails off, he looks up, and the little shit, he's grinning, more than that even, trying not to laugh. "Then we take the statuette to Bobby, and he boxes it up for us, and we lock it up at Castle Storage on a hill of 42 dogs, and we find another job, I’m sure there’re a couple on the eastern seaboard for us, and we get on with it. Oh, and also, you're never allowed to touch anything ever again, Dean." He's still grinning at you. "What?"

You're feeling maybe a little like you've been hit by a baseball bat yourself. "So you're not mad? Not gonna ream me out, call me a dumbass, hit the road?"

His smile fades. "Well, it's not like you don't know you're a dumbass already, right?"

"Like that's ever stopped you before."

Sam shrugs. "And it's not like we were doing anything we might not have done anyway, even if I probably wouldn't have picked now to do it. Definitely wouldn't have picked now to do it. So, you know, maybe I'm a little mad. But I know you didn't do it on purpose, and intent's gotta matter, right?" He mumbles something else too low for you to catch.

"What's that?" You lean forward.

"I said I liked it, okay? I know I've been kind of," he gestures awkwardly, "inflexible about this whole thing, and it was nice to be able to just let it happen. I can't usually make myself do that. Maybe I'll be able to tap into this feeling next time, you know? I'll try to do it, anyway."

"Next time." The flood of relief through you is embarrassing, but at least Sam doesn't know about it.

Or maybe he does, because the smile's back on his face. "Yeah, next time."

"When'll that be?" You waggle your eyebrows at him.

He laughs for real, one of those rare full-body Sam-laughs. "Definitely not until after we desexinate the gnome, Dean."

You can live with that. "Oh, agreed."

"After that, though, I'm open to suggestion. Or at least I'll try to be."

And that's what you've wanted all along, and damn if you didn't get it. It really is a sweet life.


End file.
